The Golden Age
by MaxStupidity
Summary: For the last Merthur Party 2013 Prompt: The Golden Age, which is about Merlin and Arthur's life together after Arthur's return. Written in first person POV. A little angst, a little fear, but mostly love.


This story is about love. And this – this moment, is about us.

_(One day, I ran into the water. One day, you returned to shore with me.  
I went to sleep with you by my side, and I woke up with you by my side.)_

Every day starts with his hands in my hair. His crimson lips, soft on my skin. He holds me, and we stay silent, our eyes closed, hanging in that moment between asleep and awake.

He doesn't let go of me until I pry his fingers from my skin. He used to complain the first few years, his eyes flying open, filling with worry in the matter of a second. It's always clear on his face, every emotion, every single experience. I've never seen anyone love like that before – never knew It was doable, but Merlin did it. He loved me more than anyone could know possible. He loved me more than he loved himself – every fiber of his being dedicating itself to me, so strong that he wouldn't have to speak a word for me to feel it. All I had to do was look him in the eye, and then I'd be drowning in it.

Today, he doesn't complain. His eyes stay closed, and I kiss him gently. "Good morning," I whisper in his ears, and then finally, he reveals his beautiful blue eyes to me.

Today, the worry is gone. His eyes are full of life and love. He doesn't speak, just smiles at me, and his smile makes every moment, every day, worth living.

_(Flashback)_

When I come back from work, he is waiting for me. He holds our dog in his arms – the same dog that kept him company for centuries after I passed - and pets it gently. Neither of us can hide the relief that rushes over us like floods when we see each other. He holds his arms open for me and I melt into them, into his touch. I breathe him in, the scent of safety and cookies and_warmth_. Sometimes, I think this is what I missed the most – the feeling of being home.

He never wants to go out with me, but he does anyway, to keep me safe. I feel bad for it – for dragging him out of the haven he has made for himself into a world that's too vivid and too harsh for his sensitivity, but I do it anyway. I take him to the park, and we walk hand in hand. Sometimes, we just sit and watch the sunset. We watch time pass, and I wonder how he's not sick of it – sick of me. He's been watching the minutes pass by him for ages.

But he never says anything to hurt me. He never looks at me with fury, anger, sorrow – never insults me the way he does himself. He never tries to tell me that I am wrong, that it was my lack of sight that crashed our lives to the ground. He never blames me for making him wait. Instead, he blames himself. In the middle of the night, he wakes up in a fit of tears and rage, screaming, apologizing so rough and raw, so loud that he loses his voice and can no longer speak nor move. He sits and cries into his knees, his hands in fists, biting his knuckles. But worst of all, the thing that hurts the most, is that he let go of himself. He stopped using his magic.

"It's okay." I'd tell him. I'd hold his freezing hands in mine until they'd stop shaking and the color returns to them. He would look at me – his eyes big, wound, and each time it would take me by surprise. You'd never expect someone who was born of light, who was always, always, the strongest presence in your life, to be capable of such vulnerability. But Merlin – he was a different species altogether, different than me, even, so every time he hurt, it was real. Every time he felt, it was accessible in all his features, in the way he bit his lips, in the way his tears fell like a waterfall from his eyes. I didn't know anyone could cry that hard. It was trying just to watch him, to know that he trusted me enough to let me witness him at his weakest. But I valued his trust like my own life, so I held his hand and talked him through it, no matter how long it took.

There is nothing more rewarding than the smile Merlin gives me when his tears have dried. He squeezes my hands and stands, all on his own, as if he hadn't been paralyzed minutes ago. I take him in my arms and I don't let him go for the rest of the night. Instead, I make him cocoa, and we sit together and watch comedies or I read him a book or we just.. Sit. Watch each other. Feel each other's presence, and sometimes that's enough, knowing that we have each other.

But sometimes, it isn't. Sometimes, if we're quiet for too long, his mind will start running again, and I need to shake him hard. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here. I'm with you."  
I'd repeat it, over and over and over again and he wouldn't believe me. "You're just an illusion."

Every time, I promise him I'm real. I'm his to keep. I'm not wounded. He won't have to wait for me again. Eventually, this stills him. His hands reach for my body and he's so afraid to touch me, afraid that the second we make contact I will vanish beneath his touch. But I reach for his hand – he winces, his whole body jumping with it, readying himself for the pain.

Then he feels my skin on his, and everything is alright again.

Now, when he cries, it's easier to free him of his binds. But it isn't because of me. He battles himself out of his own cages, tears them down, his strength penetrating the walls he put up around himself, and he breaks lose. On days when he can free himself, I am so proud. I kiss him, and he smiles through it, and he starts to laugh. "What?" I ask, but for a while, he just smiles. Then he kisses me again. "You're sunshine," he says.

His love drives me crazy – the most beautiful shade of madness.

On my thirtieth birthday, he let me welcome people into our home. I know it's a big step for him, though they're all people he's met before. He's too scared to look them in the eye. Too afraid that the second he does, someone else will die in his arms - too afraid that he will have to re-explain death to others, or worse, to himself. I fear that he wouldn't wait again. So I let him rest in his comfort, because I am too weak to drive him. He shakes their hands, old friends of his, a smile playing on his fine lips, but his gaze never leaves the ground.

It's difficult to remedy a thousand years in the space of a lifetime, but I try. I beg him to remember, something, anything – "the sparks you showed me, I want to see them again." It breaks my heart, because I know he'd do anything – absolutely anything – for me. But this is too painful a request. He goes silent for a long time, and when he speaks, he has guarded himself. "Please don't make me." It's the only thing he is willing to say to me. I nod at him, helpless at the presence of his love, even at a time like this.

_(The worst part was not knowing. Are our hours limited? Are you here to stay? Am I going to lose you again?)_

At night, he holds my hand. He stares at me – a look that used to be panic now settled into something peaceful. He's taught himself to let go of the past, not completely, but almost. So he looks at me with eyes that want to memorize simply because they love. His eyes never leave mine, and it's as if they're telling me I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. I wonder how he must think that, when he's so much more than I am. But then he kisses me, and his lips erase all my thoughts, until there is nothing left to do or think or feel but the taste of him.

He's scared of a certain hour of the day, when the sun is almost going down, the same way it was when he lost me. I don't know how anyone can be afraid when the world starts and ends within them. Maybe he doesn't see that the stars are all a part of him, that every time he touches me there is a spark like fireworks that starts at his fingertips and burns into my skin. Maybe he doesn't know that his love is the only thing that willed me back to life, the only thing keeping me alive.

At night, when he sleeps, he holds me, and I hold on to him. I know that if I ever let go, I will disappear. In the morning, I am the one to wake him, because his heart is racing too fast, and he's too afraid to open his eyes. When I leave for work, letting go of his hand is the hardest thing I have to do. When I return, falling into his arms is the easiest. When he holds me, I know I am where I belong.

_(Twelve years after our first century together, you were the oldest human alive, and I knew.)_

"Guess how old I am today." I grinned at you, and you grinned back at me. You didn't need to hold my hand – you just bolted, ran from the door to the outdoors with some sort of super speed and I bolted after you. I chased you past the park, past huge buildings, past what seemed like universes born from the ground. And then you made it to the ocean, and you stopped, and I stopped next to you. Then you took my hand, and we stood all day long, watching every second, every minute, every moment pass.

Your fingers didn't shake at all when they cast magic around us, making the sky light up with fireworks. Your eyes were lit up with so much more than love – it was magic. It was you. It was me.

We ran into the ocean together, enjoying the water as it touched our skin and surrounded us, and we fell into it. No fear traced our minds, no fear followed us to the bottom, no fear touched our skin. Your smile, your eyes, your touch – you were more vibrant than the entire world, more powerful, more beautiful, and it was the joy of being alive that made me lose myself in you.

We fell asleep on the tide, the sand pricking our skin and the sun burning us. Your eyes were fearless, a careless shade of love, and you held me not out of fear but out of love. Our destinies have been fulfilled and there was nothing, nothing left for us – we were sure now, we were only meant to love, and we did. We loved like the world had stopped still for us, like we had all of eternity before us and we treasured every moment of it.

"You are sunshine," you said, bliss clear in the ring of your voice, and I held you, so glad.  
"You are magic."


End file.
